


Stand Unshaken (Amidst a Fragile World)

by strungoutinheavenshigh



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Canon-Typical Violence, Chapter 4: Saint Denis (Red Dead Redemption 2), Chapter 5: Guarma (Red Dead Redemption 2), Chapter 6: Beaver Hollow (Red Dead Redemption 2), Imprisonment, M/M, No Beta, On Hiatus, Spoilers, Tags May Change, except not in guarma, pls point out errors, prison conditions in 1899
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-01-29 15:33:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21412495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strungoutinheavenshigh/pseuds/strungoutinheavenshigh
Summary: The streets of Saint Denis rang with chaos. Gunshots drowned out the screams of civilians in a manifestation of the divide between civilization and lawlessness. Dutch preferred to call it a conflict between the confines of law and a life of freedom, a subtle distinction that guided his life's philosophy. Have faith, he would rail, that this is a means to an end, surviving now in order to live in the future.With every bullet that whizzed by his head, John doubted that philosophy a little more.(I can't write summaries. This is John's POV after he's arrested in SD.)
Relationships: John Marston/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 5
Kudos: 17





	Stand Unshaken (Amidst a Fragile World)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey hi what up I'm back to whump on John. I'm replaying RDR2 and boy am I not ready to feel that pain again, pour one out for my emotional stability. It's been a long time since I wrote for or engaged with the fandom and it's wonderful/terrible/beautiful/heartbreaking to be back! Y'all were good to me before so I'll try to be good back <3 Hopefully I haven't forgotten how to write.

The streets of Saint Denis rang with chaos. Gunshots drowned out the screams of civilians in a manifestation of the divide between civilization and lawlessness. Dutch preferred to call it a conflict between the confines of law and a life of freedom, a subtle distinction that guided his life's philosophy. Have faith, he would rail, that this is a means to an end, _surviving_ now in order to _live_ in the future. 

With every bullet that whizzed by his head, John doubted that philosophy a little more. A man can't exactly live if he dies trying. He knew they needed money but hitting a bank in a city this big, with security this tight, felt something like a death wish. 

This shrill ringing in his ears made it hard to focus. Pinned beneath a broken window, he knew they wouldn't be able to shoot their way out of this one. Goddamn Pinkertons had already killed Hosea and the crazed look in Dutch's eye was far from comforting. 

"Fire in the hole! Everybody back!" Arthur shouted over the commotion and ducked behind the counter. John had a split second to be confused before an explosion shook the bank's foundation. 

Micah and Bill bolted across the room. "Come on, John! We have to get out of here," Javier called over his shoulder as he followed suit. 

Swearing under his breath, John hauled himself up and ran. Briefly. White-hot pain exploded in his shoulder before he could reach the blown-out wall. He was distantly aware of his knees hitting the ground as darkness began to cloud his vision. 

"Put your hands behind your head, now!" a muffled voice demanded from behind him. Dutch whipped around from where he'd been ducking through the wall. He met John's eyes for a moment and John swore the older man's expression turned from panic to relief at the sight before him. Then he was gone. 

Even if John had wanted to obey that order, he didn't have the time before blacking out and falling heavily onto the floor. 

* * *

For a long while, John let himself sag in his bindings, trying to maintain the guise that was unconscious as he took stock of the situation. He was bound to a sturdy chair by his wrists and ankles. Rope dug into his bruised and bleeding skin. Flexing subtly against the bindings confirmed that they wouldn't give, someone with a lot of experience had tied them with skill. He was fairly confident that there was still a bullet in his shoulder; either they simply didn't care about the risk of infection or they hadn't had time to take care of it. That and general filth aside, he could've been a lot worse. Probably would be before long if the plan was to keep him alive for questioning.

"I know you're awake, Mr. Marston," a whining voice declared from across the room and John damn near jumped out of his skin, jerking his head up to identify the man. Of course it was Milton. "How's the shoulder?"

John scowled at the agent's light tone. Bastard. "Been worse." He scanned the room for escape routes, only to be disappointed by the single door and lack of windows. Not ideal.

"Yes, yes, I'm sure you're well accustomed to brushing off bullet wounds. A handy skill, no doubt. How much practice did it take to numb that pain?" Milton stepped forward and laid a hand on the shoulder in question, watching as John fought not to wince at the pressure. "You have nearly two decades of practice, yes? Surely by now you can handle just about anything I throw at you!" 

A thumb pressed hard into the still bleeding hole and John couldn't quite hold his grunt of pain behind clenched teeth. "I ain't telling you anything, I ain't no rat. Reckon we can go down this road if that's what the high and mighty Pinkerton Detective Agency is about, but I ain't talking."

Milton chuckled, unperturbed. "We shall see, Mr. Marston. There are perhaps more effective motivators than pain." With that, Milton straightened, turned on his heel, and left. The door locked with a resounding clang. 

As footsteps faded away, John put a more concerted effort into getting free of his binds. Tugging on his wrists only boosted what had been a dull ache into something sharp and throbbing. He had similar levels of success with his legs. The chair didn't shift or rock at all, must've been bolted to the floor. Swearing under his breath, sore and tired and missing his meager bedroll, he squirmed in his seat until he got relatively comfortable. 

Hours passed. At least, they felt like hours. The room was dark, save for a single fire-lit lamp on the desk in front of him that gave no indication of the passage of time. Hunger began to nag at his insides but he ignored it. As far as he was concerned, asking for food was as damning as cooperating. With no confidence in escape and nowhere else for his mind to go, his thoughts wandered to the bank. To Dutch.

It was hard to pin down the moment when Dutch had started tilting off his rocker but at some point, something had gone sideways. The man who had abandoned him in the bank was not the same man who raised him. Blackwater might have been the first time he noticed that ruthless streak, between the indiscriminate murder and the blatant disregard for their safety on that boat. Heidi McCourt would be burned into John's memory for years to come. He'd seen the fear in her eyes before Dutch shot her down without a second thought. That was when the facade started to fall away and his unconditional loyalty faltered, much to Dutch's chagrin. He never could keep his mouth shut, even when doing so would've saved him a verbal thrashing. As far as Dutch was concerned, objections to plans meant nothing more than outright disloyalty or lack of faith in him. While Dutch was losing John's trust, John had been losing Dutch's in turn. It was a vicious cycle and it had reared its ugly head in Saint Denis. Dutch had a choice in the bank, to help John at some risk to himself or to sacrifice him and get away unscathed. Hosea had always been the voice of reason between their flaring tempers but now... Fuck.

Dutch and Hosea had equal but very different hands in raising him. When they'd seen him with the noose around his neck, nothing more than a scrawny spitfire street rat, they'd seen different things. Dutch saw an opportunity, a resource to be used for his cause. Hosea saw a child who deserved a second chance. It was anyone's guess who'd been closer to the truth, but those preconceptions guided their hands in raising him. Dutch taught him to shoot, steal, lie, and kill without flinching. He taught him to survive in a cruel world. On the other hand, Hosea taught him to read and write, to love and hate, to see the balance and beauty in the world. He taught him to thrive in whatever conditions were thrown at him, to make the best of his lot in life. Where Dutch was cold and calculating, Hosea was warm and understanding. They'd balanced each other out. Now Hosea was gone, taken from them by the government bastards he'd rallied against his entire life. John could still smell the stench of death that had permeated the streets of Saint Denis. He could still see the grey skin of his face and the bright red stain of blood on his shirt. Trapped with a ghost in a memory and absorbed by the ache of losing the closest thing he'd ever had to a father, John didn't realize he was crying until he tasted salt on his lips. None of it was fair. He would've taken that bullet in a heartbeat if he'd been able.

Instead he was tied up and forced to deal with the very bastard who pulled the trigger. He'd die before giving up the gang, even if he was far from certain that Dutch would send anyone to spring him. It was an odd thought to consider, that he'd likely been well and truly abandoned.

Sudden banging on the door snapped John from his thoughts with a start. A big burly man entered with a medicine bag and a bowl of... soup? Probably? "Reckon you were gettin' hungry back here. It's high time we take a look at that shoulder anyway. Milton figured we should wait but he don't rightly know how to recognize a man with nothin' to lose."

John's brow furrowed at that last statement but he couldn't see much point in arguing. Anything he had left to lose was beyond his reach. Weren't much that was his to lose in the first place. So he kept his mouth shut.

The man dropped his bag on the desk and pulled a chair up in front of John's, stirring the soup carefully. "No need to make this harder than it needs to be. I don't figure any man with a shred of dignity wants to be spoon-fed but I can't untie you. Don't go scowling at me now, it ain't my rule!" The genuine offense in the man's voice was confusing, but John schooled his face back to neutral. "Damn government agents roll into my city and leave bodies in the streets, on the roofs, all over the place! Who cleans that up? Me and mine! Now we got an outlaw in our back room and they want us to play all tough, pft! You ain't my problem so I won't be yours."

John found himself grateful for the food, even if the officer was right about spoon-feeding stripping away a man's dignity. Somehow it was easier coming from someone else who resented the Pinkertons. "What's your name, mister?" he asked once the bowl was empty.

"Officer O'Connor, at your service!" O'Connor tipped his hat with a flourish before reaching for the medicine bag. "Levi O'Connor, yessir. Been with the local law for 'bout five years and did some bounty hunting before that. You're John Marston, ain't you?" 

"Ain't much use in lying at this point," he shrugged and immediately regretted it as his shoulder throbbed. 

O'Connor sighed heavily and started pulling John's tattered shirt over his shoulder as best he could, given the restriction of the ropes. John firmly decided he'd rather not see the damage since it was probably at least half infected by this point. The officer's grimace was all the confirmation he needed. "I'm going to rinse this first, then get the bullet out, then disinfect it. Can't hardly believe you didn't bleed out and catch a fever yet." His voice wavered and somehow John almost felt sorry for the man.

"Fever's well on the way, but the bullet didn't get all the way through so it didn't bleed so much." He'd done his best to ignore the chills that shook his hands while sweat rolled down his forehead, but the reality of the situation was that he would've been in a real bad way if O'Connor hadn't come when he did. Might still be in a bad way. "You patch up bullet holes often, O'Connor?"

"We usually have a doctor do it but Milton laughed when I offered to go fetch him. It's been a long while but I reckon I remember what to do."

Cool water was a relief, the wound had felt like it was liable to spit flames if left alone. O'Connor gave him a belt to bite down on but little other warning before pulling a knife and getting to work; the digging and twisting and searching for the bullet almost knocked him unconscious again. By the time O'Connor pulled back with the bullet between his fingers, John's vision was swimming something awful. Sweat seemed to drench every inch of his body. It was too hot. Then the whiskey bottle came out. 

John dropped the belt from between his teeth, "No, no, wait just give me a minute! I just- I need- I can't-." A violent tremor wracked through him and O'Connor watched with something like sympathy.

"It'll only get worse if I leave it alone, Marston," he insisted softly and brought the belt back up. "I... I owe you this. You likely don't remember at all but you saved my daughter's life, years ago, back in West Elizabeth. Some jackass had scooped her up at the saloon and tried to ride her out of town and... and I had no idea until you came riding up to our door with her. Wouldn't take my money, all young and stubborn. I could tell just from lookin' at you that you were trouble, but you saved my little girl. Things have a way of coming back around because now you're in pretty damn bad shape and I'm tryin' to pay it forward. Let me help you."

Any words got lost in John's throat as his pain-addled mind tried to process that. It was all he could manage to bite down on the belt, and he bit down hard. O'Connor smiled sadly and upended the bottle over his shoulder. One, two, three seconds passed and then _agony_ erupted from the wound. A strangled cry escaped through his teeth and everything went peacefully, blissfully dark.


End file.
